


Feed A Cold

by Writing-Rammstein (writingfanfic)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 10:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14210763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Rammstein
Summary: For the prompt: 'Would you be able to write about how the reader is taking care of Till while he is sick in bed with a cold, because he is a big baby?'LITTLE SICKY BEAR.





	Feed A Cold

“Please just lie down.”

“I am  _fine_.”

You look at Till, folding your arms, and he looks at you stubbornly.

“I am!”

“Sure you are,” you say, sharply. “That’s why you’re running a fever, and you’re covered in snot-” You hand him a tissue, and he glares at you. “And your nose is bright red, and your eyes are all bloodshot, and you’re sweaty, and you keep shivering, and you’re sneezing…” As if on cue, he sneezes, and then glares at you again as if you caused it. “Do I need to go on?”

“I’m  _fine_ ,” he grumbles, and then huddles down into the covers, shivering and snuffling. “I have shit that I have to do today.” You close your eyes, and take out your phone.

 _Paul L_. His name has a little puppy emoji next to it in your phone. You wonder what he’d say if he knew.

_Till is very ill. Sorry, he won’t be there today._

You put your phone down, and he glares at you.

“Who are you talking to?”

“You aren’t leaving this flat. Not today. Not at all.” You aren’t sure how you’ll stop him if he tries, he’s built like the oft-sung-of brick house, but you’re hoping a stern look and folded arms will awaken some primal instinct in him to listen. “You are not well at all!”

“I have a cold. My legs have not fallen off. I am not dying.” He tries to sit up, and misses. “Oh…”

Your phone dings, and you check it.  _Richard ZK_ , and some skyscrapers. He picked his, because he looks over your shoulder and was very offended you’d chosen a raccoon.

_OK. Paul hs 0 crdt. Rxx_

You’re glad you had that clarified.

_Hw ill btw? Rxx_

You sigh, and Till makes a clumsy grab for your phone – luckily, his depth perception is shot today, and he swipes at the air like a bear trying to punt a bee-hive.

“Who?!” he manages, and then begins to cough, and you pass him the bottle of water on the bedside table, before texting Richard back with nothing but the temperature on the thermometer. Whether it’ll mean anything to him, you don’t know, but you lean forward and touch Till’s forehead. Cooler, but still a little toasty. Hmm…

“Did you take the ibuprofen?” you ask, and he looks at you, every line and mark on his face suddenly contributing to making him look every day of his fifty-five years. Your heart flutters, and you scoot up, kissing his forehead. “Did you?”

“…” You look at the bedside table, and sigh, picking up the little white tablet.

“Come on. Open up.”

“You aren’t my mother.”

“No. You want me to call her?” you try, and he opens his mouth obediently for you to pop the tablet in. “No dry swallowing, you hear, it can be really bad for you.” You pass him the water. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea-”

“I’m hungry,” he mumbles, and you lean forward.

“Oh, Tillie, you know what they say. Feed a cold-” His eyes light up. “-starve a fever.” Panic rapidly fills them, and you can’t help but giggle as he takes a deep breath in. “I’ll get you something little, okay?”


End file.
